


Care

by Morbid_lizard



Category: Fae Tales - not_poignant, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: I just want them to fricklefrackle, M/M, and yet..., what is it with me and unrequited love 6'_'6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:54:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbid_lizard/pseuds/Morbid_lizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is widely known amongst Gwyn's soldiers that their general will every so often get so drunk he'll willingly and readily offer himself to anyone who wants to take him. That he does so of his own volition though is not much consolation for those who might care.</p><p>Cadr follows him to his tent after one of those night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/gifts).



> Using my character Cadr again cuz he's fun to write and maybe I ship him a little too much with Gwyn. SO SELF INDULGENT I KNOW... (gomen gomen gomen)

Gwyn lays sprawled before him, a thick layer of dark grime smeared on his left side; someone must have dragged him by one arm, much like one would drag a dead body, and Cadr grits his teeth, catches himself from snarling in disgust. There are cuts, bruises, a large purple blotch spreading right underneath Gwyn's ribs, and Cadr feels something stir inside him. It is a hideous thing, a repulsive need to take the other fae, make him his in a way he knows he could never do otherwise, but he shoves it back to wherever it came from, and instead gently lays on top of the other one's battered body. He inhales, presses his nose to the crook of Gwyn's neck and rests his face there, enjoys the way his own breath warms the patch of cold skin, makes it grow hotter. He feels Gwyn shiver beneath him ever so often, sigh shakily.

Gwyn lets out a soft groan, moves a hand to push Cadr away (or perhaps to draw him closer, he can't tell). Eventually, cold fingers brush over his short hair, rest upon his neck. Cadr buries his face further against Gwyn's jaw, feels a feverish heat spread underneath his touch as he strokes the chest of the barely concious fae, warms his way up to his neck, his cheek, his temple.  
Daring, he lifts his face and presses his lips to the side of Gwyn's mouth, wants to taste him the way the others before him must have, but he wants to think he's different, he wants to be different. 

...Yet, for all that he claims, he is but a dog and although he won't violate Gwyn's mouth, won't take what can't be conciously granted, he still drags his tongue over the fae's cheek, tastes the salt of Gwyn's cold sweat.  
Lightly, he cards his fingers through Gwyn's curls, pets the unruly strands. He feels the hand upon his own neck twitch, and he takes hold of it, brings it down so that he can place his mouth upon its knuckles, lick it clean from the dried blood on each fingers' tip. 

He shifts, presses himself a little tighter against Gwyn, moves just so that he can comfortably wrap his arms around the man and pretend that it is alright, that he doesn't feel the other one's body stiffen, try to move away with an uncoordinated shove that misses its target. He waits, keeps his hold firm through another half-hearted attempt at escape, but the struggle is weak and much too soon Gwyn gives up, settles for resting beneath Cadr, face hidden against his chest. His breathing is ragged as if ill but fae the rank of Gwyn do not get sick, not the way humans do, and Cadr raises yet again a hand to his hair, gently strokes it to try and calm him down, help the trembles that still rake his body abate. 

"Shhh...It is over". 

A stronger shudder runs through Gwyn's body, shakes his whole form. He mumbles something, voice slurred by the daze alcohol wrapped him into, but whatever it is Cadr doesn't catch, and he exhales in relief when Gwyn eventually relaxes under him, stops trembling quite so strongly.

"All will be well".

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The following morning Gwyn wakes, sore and tired still. He realizes, with no great surprise, that he doesn't remember a thing of the previous night. Yet, there is a blanket draped over his naked body, and a jar of water to relieve his parched throath waits at his side. He drinks avidly, feels the drumming behind his eyelids grow a tad fainter. A covered plate rests a little further away, and after the initial confusion, he reaches out to uncover it...  
..and then the smell of honeyed pastries hits him, and although he hardly ever feels hungry after one of these nights, nausea and a lurching twist of loneliness much more familiar companions, he wolfs down on the sweet treats, savours the warm stickiness of the golden filling. He doesn't know who did this but feels grateful all the same and however foolish and unlikely he knows the thought must be, he allows himself to believe, even if only for a while, that perhaps someone wishes him well.


End file.
